Like everyone, Antonio Acerbi was born. Like many, is still alive.
He worked as a graphic and web designer in Italy, Spain and Germany.
His artistic career began in 2003, based on the development experience of life in pictures. The result is an intense visual diary, a balance between social and detached irony on the inevitables yearnings of the youth. The other constant in his production are the city streets. Between skyscrapers, ruins, caves and tombs, the architectural structures, often reworked until the alienation of vision, build desolate landscapes and vestigial, where human life leaves traces whitout showing itself.

How the art of the worm (wormanart) works ? Assuming for a moment to believe in art and man (do not doubt about the worms ) ... As launched to universal primary and lumps of emotion, this stuff comes from an icy fact. I refer to the relationship between us and our digital images. Mobiles, videocameras ecc... are charged with gigs and gigs of crap that serve mainly to emphasize that what we are doing at the moment is significant for us. Do you mind, the amateur has always existed, that guy who was taking ten thousand pictures of his holiday, then forces you to see them realizing that his comments to slides that ran hypnotic, with that smooth sound of the projector that captures and releases them, one after the other, would not be sufficient to reproduce the magic of Bibbona fifteen days, nor to keep you awake. At least in the past there was the costly development of negative mediation. Today we are all that weird guy who never spoke to anyone at weddings because "excuse me but i've to record the cascade of champagne, see you later." It seems to me to see our Worman, the artist as a young man who exhumed from its digital morgue the bodies of days that are distinguished from each other only through the date of the file and at the same time so significant (days and files), and wrap around you like layer of a long gold summer making you greedy for the sincerity of the winter cold. The collages are full of eyes, eyes, with or without a face around. Are those of the author, who splits. Because we try to live but so many times it's enough seeing yourself that is trying. Between the fire of desire and the cold distance of a mechanical eye, there are flashes of dreams and chains of events and people in your life that are gone. I loved you so much, I didn't know you were so nasty. Look at me now, hiding behind my hair. And this is what the images represent, a node in the towel for you to remember that this is your life even if maybe you go back and find only one node. Nothing else.